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sing, as is my habit in my study and bedchamber, I have, in the language of Deborah Primrose, all my eyes about me when I am abroad. Nothing escapes my regard, from Dolly the chambermaid, twirling her mop, to orator Bubble, haranguing the million. I pay the fees most willingly to the master of a puppet show, and generally make one at a party of dancing bears. I seldom pass Peale's museum without giving his curiosities a call. Wertmuller's Danæ I chastely contemplate in all her glory, and even those sons of fictitious harmony, who so ingeniously contrive to grind music for our gratification, frequently beguile me of the last piece of silver in my purse. With all this humour, which seems to partake with the character of an idler, a man of pleasure, or a man of the world, rather than with that of a man of letters, I am still studious and contemplative. The process of Thought, is like the furnace of Alchymy. It is in the most intense blaze. My mental mill like suspected and injured Desdemona, turns and turns and still goes on. In the public streets, I collect many of my materials for private meditation. from a hawker and derive a theme from the theatres. rapid rotation of the Circus does not, I hope, make me giddy, but wise. I derive sometimes my light from the drowsy watchman's lantern, and a glance at a jeweller's brilliant shelves reminds me full often of Arabian magnificence, the glittering of a fairy palace, and John Bunyan's Vanity Fair.

I catch a hint

Ten midsummer's ago, when I wandered from the country to the town, I remember that one day my attention was arrested by a caricature conceived by the Hogarthian humour of Gilray. This ludicrous print was suspended under the sign of my perfumer; and was appropriately entitled "an idea in the night." A care worn author, in his nocturnal habiliments, night gown and slippers, and night cap awry, has summoned his reluctant and sleepy servant from the land of Drowsyhead, that an idea in the night may not be lost in the morning. . After my mirth had subsided at the expense of this vigilant retainer of the muses, and his yawning boy, who seemed to wish all muses and all authors, at the devil, I could not, for my life, refrain from reflecting upon the utility of this practice of recording by the aid of the faithful pen, whatever of witty or wise, whatever of the shining, or the solid

may occur to fancy, and judgment, during the darkling hours. I thought of the example of Erasmus, I thought of the practice of Pope. Ever since this period, it has been my constant habit whenever, in the phrase of Dr. Johnson, I find myself wakefully disturbed, to rise with alacrity from the sleepless bed, to trim the lamp of midnight, and take up the thread of speculation. My favourite friend, Bob, the rover, who thoroughly understands my humour, has given me a genuine CLASSICAL LAMP, which he assures me, upon the veracity of a tourist, he actually dug out, of the ruins of the last earthquake at Messina. I believe Bob so implicitly that even if the dog lies, I would not be robbed of the delusion to be the first magistrate of my country. The lamp, which I illume by his bounty, is certainly a most brilliant one; and when in a sort of rapture, I survey its steady splendours, I cannot help thinking that, perhaps by the assistance of its blessed light, some Roman student has explored the imperishable page of Tully, or scanned a Seneca's morals, and that it has lighted up many a scene in Terence and brightened the wit of Martial.

Having of late furnished myself with divers jars of the purest oil, having burnished my lamp to a glitter not inferior to Mambrino's helmet, having, moreover, been careful with the pious - author of Tristam Shandy, to see that a sufficient wick be standing out, I propose, at least once a month, to communicate to the public, Ideas in the night, which, though rapidly conceived may not be willingly forgotten.



THE Christmas wreath so late in bloom,
Has faded with the closing year:

But Time, soon lights the season's gloom,
And flow'rs with sunshine, reappear.

What, though twelve months have glided by,
And in their flight have stol'n a bliss;
Shall we, o'er fleeting raptures sigh?
And lose our cake and annual kiss-

Shall we not hail, with lib'ral cheer,
Old father Time? whose high command,
Once more renews the dawning year-
Its witching sports, and greetings bland.

Though grave and gray: on him attend,
Young blooming Joys and rosy Hours.
Inspir'd by him, the Muses blend

Their wreath, with Fancy's sweetest flow'rs.

Oft when a feeling thrills the breast,

Whose sadness sooths-whose gloom we prise:

He bids unholy passions rest,

And Mem'ry's fairy forms arise.

Then, many a scene of pleasures flown,
The smile of friends-Affection's tear:

And many a transport do we own;
Which once illum'd Life's social sphere.

More constant than the solar ray
The hobbling wight is still at hand,
To gild with smiles our pilgrim way,
And guide us to a happier land.

When transports fire-or raptures glide
Tumultuous, through each throbbing vein-

He checks the wild impetuous tide;
And Passion yields to Reason's reign.

Does Sorrow aim its barbed dart?
Distraction pierce, or Anguish burn?

Time steals the sting-He sooths the smart:
And radiant hours of peace return.

Do fatal Love or treach'rous Hate,
The preludes to despair and death,
Envenom'd on their victims wait,
And chide the faint and ling'ring breath.

Oft Time, with vet'ran honours crown'd
Despoils the traitors of their prey:
Extracts the poison from the wound:
And Hope relumes its cheering ray.

When Languors pale, and chilling Spleen
Through Pleasure Thespian temples crept;
When Famine tragediz'd each scene,
And queens, in sober sadness, wept.

Did he not bring to feast the age,
A first rate Cook, across the main,
Make tragic dishes "all the rage,”
And Thalia sport her whims again.

No more the Comic Muse, in tears,
Augments her sister's sullen gloom-
Sir Archy on the stage appears—
And laurels twine round Macklin's tomb.

When thron'd in his triumphal car,
To Fame's proud temple Shakspeare flies,
And Glory, like a brilliant star,
Summons her fav'rite to the skies,

Like him immortal-Time precedes,
His dazzling and sublime career:
Again the royal Duncan bleeds!
And Virtue weeps o'er Hamlet's bier.

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Again, from Guilt's pale phantoms flies-
Relentless Richard, bath'd in blood;
The sport of witchcraft, Macbeth dies:
By Fate, but not by Fear subdued.

When Genius sports in masquerade,
Assuming Myra's graceful form,
When Wit imparts its sparkling aid,
And Taste unites its polish'd charm-

Still Time, the glowing thought refines,
Bustling provides the quill-and then,
Improves the style, extends the lines,
And with his hatchet nibs the pen.

In vain, her rivals vent their spleen,
For partial to his fav'rite maid,
Each hour, an added grace is seen,
A virtue proved, or charm displayed-

Are friends assembled in the bow'r,
With rosy goblets for their guide?
Do joys convivial crown the hour,
Or o'er the banquet, Bliss preside?

Time, through the circle glides, unseen,
Though Rapture oft, his crutch doth steal,
When Beauty, with bewitching mien,
And tell-tale Love their spells reveal.



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